


feuilly has a good day

by toomuchsky



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 13:15:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16493276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchsky/pseuds/toomuchsky
Summary: a drabble on self care, making room for friends, and working yourself too hard. i was having a lot of found family feelings and they needed somewhere to go.





	feuilly has a good day

**Author's Note:**

> for @pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome bc i love her

Feuilly hasn’t felt this exhausted in a long time. It’s a bone deep, existential kind of exhaustion that hurts him to his very core. 

He unlocks his door, clatters his keys on top of the little bookshelf he’s been using as a shoe rack, rubs at his face. He puts a little too much force in it though, and the keys fall to the ground in a jingle. He can’t even be bothered to pick them up - just gives them a little scoff before closing the door behind him. His cat starts rubbing at his ankles, purring loudly, and all Feuilly feels is annoyance that he’s in his way. 

It’s raining outside, sheets of rain pelting the windows in his living room, and drops from his umbrella darken the carpet as he sets it near his door. 

“Come on, Neruda, you’re gonna trip me,” Feuilly mutters to the cat as he makes his way over to the kitchen. 

Food. Step one is food when dealing with himself in this mood. 

Maybe water. Had he drank any water today? Had he eaten anything? 

He’s been so busy lately, rushing from job to Ami meetings to school; everything is reeling in his head. Texts are piling up on his phone, emails in his inbox, and he can’t seem to find the energy to deal with any of it. Things have been falling through the cracks, and he  _ hates  _ letting people down.

He sets his backpack down on his way to feed Neruda. First things first, he guesses. He realizes he's out of wet food for Neruda just as he gets an email from his bank telling him he's over drafted from his account. 

He slides down to his kitchen floor as the sky crashes above his head though the window next to his sink. His phone chimes with a text from Enjolras. 

All he wants is one goddamn moment of peace, and the universe seems to love denying him even that. He hates looking at his phone, all the little red numbers telling him exactly how many people he's letting down, how many responsibilities he's avoiding. 

_ Are you okay? _ The text reads. 

Another text to the group chat from Joly, and then another text from Enjolras, and then another email, this time from work. He shuts his eyes and lets his head thunk back behind him as it hits the cupboards. 

He can’t - he can’t he can’t he  _ can’t _ . He hasn’t felt this impossibly exhausted in so long. 

Okay, food - he thinks again to himself.  _ Fuck _ . He doesn’t have the energy to make anything and he has absolutely no money to order takeout. 

His phone buzzes again and he can’t even look at it. He wants to throw it across the kitchen to get it as far away from him as possible, but can’t fathom the thought of it somehow breaking and then having to deal with  _ that _ . 

His head is pounding, and he knows he’s being irrational, but he’s just  _ so damn tired _ . 

Neruda is just finishing up his dinner when Feuilly opens his eyes again, and Neruda comes over and starts purring intensely, rubbing all over Feuilly legs and trying to get closer to his face. Feuilly smiles, and gathers the cat up in his arms to smush his face in Neruda’s fur. Neruda just purrs louder. “Nothing bad is allowed to happen to you, you hear me, Neruda? You’re not allowed to get sick or find a way out or anything, got it?” 

Neruda just blinks very slowly at Feuilly and starting licking the hand that’s petting him, and Feuilly’s heart balloons up to three sizes. 

Damn, he’s still starving. He eyes his pantry, trying to see if there’s anything quick he could throw in the microwave or oven and still try and eat  _ something  _ for dinner. 

He’s just spotted the tortillas and is about to get up and grab them to make some quick cheese quesadillas - it’s not much but he figures he can wash it down with some water to trick his stomach into being full - when the doorbell rings. 

Weird. He’s not expecting anyone, and he really hopes to fuck it’s not his landlord asking for the rent early like he’s done in the past. 

He taps over, rain still crashing into his windows, and opens the door to find - 

“Hey, Feuilly!” Bahorel grins widely, shoves a six pack of cider in his arms, and then pushes past him into his apartment, shucking off his coat and jacket. 

“Uh - “

“Hey, do you like empanadas or tortas better? I can’t remember,” Grantaire says, coming into Feuilly’s apartment behind Bahorel and then stepping aside to let other people walk in, unwinding his scarf. “I mean, it doesn’t matter - I got both from that place down the street, but still. For future reference.” 

“Hey Feuilly,” Combeferre says, pushing his glasses up as he holds out a book. “I found this at the bookstore this morning and it made me think of you and our conversation on Mesopotamian myth, thought you might enjoy it.” 

“Um,” Feuilly says, and then watches as all of his friends walk in, crowding his small apartment and throwing their jackets and outerwear in a corner like they plan on staying for a while. 

Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly have brought board games that they’re already setting up; Grantaire and Bahorel must have collaborated on the food and drinks; Jehan has inexplicably brought a cat toy and some treats for Neruda and Cosette and Eponine are already entertaining themselves with his cat; Marius and Courfeyrac are arguing over music choices; and Combeferre is helping set up the food in Feuilly’s tiny kitchen. 

Enjolras walks in last with another six pack of cider. “Hey,” he says, eyeing Feuilly. 

Feuilly can’t do anything but blink at him. What is happening? 

Enjolras just huffs and closes the door behind him before turning back to face Feuilly. “Look, I just - you seemed really tired. And just, exhausted. And I - I just, I know what that’s like. This shit - this shit can be so  _ exhausting _ , and I get it. So I wanted to do something.” He blinks up at Feuilly, slowly. “I hope that’s okay.” 

Feuilly chest hurts. He can’t believe - he can’t believe his friends care this much about him, would go through this much trouble just to make one night fun for him - 

Enjolras misinterprets the look though - “You don’t even have to do anything, or make conversation, if you’re too tired or were hoping to recharge or something - I get it. You can just eat and drink and just hang out if you want - you can kick us out if you want. I’m sorry, I know this is a risk, I just - wanted to do  _ something  _ \- “

Feuilly interrupts him with a hug, arms thrown over his shoulders and squeezing him tight. Damn, the man annoys him sometimes but fuck if he isn’t the best damn thing to happen to him. “This is - perfect. Thank you, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras hugs him back, tightly, and with the rain and the music Courfeyrac and Marius have finally chosen as backdrop, says, “I’m glad. You’re - you’re so  _ good,  _ Feuilly. I didn’t want to lose that.” 

It’s not going to solve everything, Feuilly knows that. It’s not going to make money instantly appear in his bank account, and all his pending notifications and work will still be there the next morning when he wakes up, but for tonight - just for tonight, he can shed all that and just be  _ Feuilly _ again. With his friends, feeling warm and full and pleasantly tipsy and surrounded by love. 

And he’ll be that much more prepared to take on the world tomorrow morning. 


End file.
